forests may be gorgeous
by our dancing days
Summary: but there is nothing more alive than a tree that learns to grow in a cemetery. / next-gen freeverse collection, for HPFC.
1. double or nothing

**Word Count: **100 (no, really)

**Notes: **This is written for the 'Double or Nothing' challenge over on HPFC; each chapter I'll do a different Next-Gen character and double the word count. I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

Let's stop this **charade**;

what _more_ could you want?

This isn't a game -

if it was, you'd be losing -

your life doesn't d-e-p-e-n-d on four leaf clovers

and counting d^o^w^n the **petals** until

they say

_I love you. _

You've got so much to lose,

and yet so much to gain.

It's **double** or _nothing_,

and are you sure that's a risk you wish to take?

(Teddy's not coming to save you.)

((It's been four months.))

(((What happens in five?)))

((Teddy's not going to be there to pick up the pieces.))

(Are you?)

I think it's g-a-m-e o-v-e-r, Victoire.


	2. human or dancer

**Word Count: **200 (no, really)

**Notes: **This is the next instalment for the double-or-nothing competition (shh I'm not supposed to have posted it yet); this is going to turn interesting once we get past 10,000.

* * *

Oh, _dearest_,

life is but a s-t-a-g-e,

and you **dance** and **twirl** across it

like a puppet on a s|t|r|i|n|g.

They control you;

your feet /bend/ and \break\ from the pressure,

but you won't stop, can't stop.

This is the **price** you pay.

(insanity is just like dancing)

((drumbeats

and smiling and forgetting))

You'll _tangle_ yourself in your ribbons,

and they'll )twist( around your neck,

and what **use **will you be then?

A broken puppet,

caught up in its s|t|r|i|n|g|s.

A dancer

who's lost her r-h-y-t-h-m.

They'll leave you hanging in every sense of the word;

no _call backs_, **flashbacks** -

no **spotlight**, _white light_.

The end is dark (like your heart, Molly dearest).

_Oops,_

_the curtains closed on you, my dear;_

_you don't get an encore. _

But what are you?

Are you h-u-m-a-n or d|a|n|c|e|r, baby girl?

Because it's in your veins

_- the girl who danced -_

and in your soul;

you **bleed **music and **sing** dance steps.

This is who you are,

because all you do is run / away,

and hide in \ shame,

and no good dancer ever looks their audience

in the )eye(

You were **born** for this.

You're a _dancer, _'til the day you s-n-a-p.


	3. fight or flight

**Word Count: **400 (no, really)

**Notes: **This is all based off of my lovely, next-gen head canon, in which the battle between lilyscorpius and scorpiusal will never be resolved. I suppose I'll have to deal with that later. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Pretty little _angel_ -

destined for g-l-o-r-y,

for **gold**.

You've waited your whole life for

_Paris_ and _Palestine_,

and a (hazel-eyed) boy with a (wide-eyed) grin.

What are you going to do?

You never made it to **Jerusalem**, baby girl,

and you never led anyone

to any _holy_ _land_.

Did you want to, d-a-r-l-i-n-g?

Have your _followers_ and preach to the nations,

waiting,

just hoping to get out of **London**,

get out of **England**

and all those judging eyes (that aren't hazel)?

So you **run, **pretty girl,

until you get out of England, get out of London;

you _travel_ the (world) and you try to forget.

In Beijing,

he writes you a letter.

In Monte Carlo,

he _kisses_ the side of your mouth.

In New York,

he's in the audience when you're on the s-t-a-g-e,

and gives you a bouquet of **black** flowers.

So you **run. **Again.

In St. Petersburg,

he leaves a _note_ in the hotel you're staying in.

In Madrid, your eyes meet across a ballroom.

Somewhere near Brussels,

his hand b-r-u-s-h-e-s against yours,

and for a second,

you're _tempted._

But the moment is gone too soon,

and you're **gone** again.

Another city.

Another life.

In Moscow, he dyes his hair blonde,

and says something like,

_"Oi, we could be twins, couldn't we?"_in fluent Russian.

In Rome,

his jumbled Italian sounds like **music**.

When you reach Barcelona,

he orders you a drink in Spanish

(you down it in one and choose _flight _over _fight _once again).

In Amsterdam, the receptionist gives you a message.

_Stop **running**._

_And I'll stop hiding._

You don't stop until you reach Bangkok.

In Vienna,

he's busking on the street corner,

bathed in the g-l-o-w of the solitary streetlight.

You drop your bag,

toe off your heels,

and almost don't make it to the hotel in time.

Budapest brings him (smiling) up at you over a coffee cup.

You leave before your own is even _cold_.

It's a game you're playing, Dominique;

you try so hard to **get** **away**

(you just don't try hard enough)

and wherever you go,

he _follows_.

Maybe that says enough.

Because then you reach Paris;

and he doesn't f-o-l-l-o-w.

He sends you a letter from Glasgow,

Dublin,

and Cornwall.

(and maybe you think you don't need

**Paris** or **Palestine**;

life isn't about fight or flight, baby girl,

_but knowing when to give in_).

You've always wanted to go to Cornwall.


End file.
